Dinner and a Show, To Go
by Le Penguin
Summary: Jean finally gets the courage to ask Armin to his place for dinner, and the night ends predictably.


Jean had spent a week laying out tonight's menu, and the whole afternoon preparing. Cucumber salad and salmon canapés, chickpea wraps, angel food cake for dessert. He considered something a little more impressive, but stumbled upon a brilliant thought. With angel food cake, he could steal out of the candlelit dining room, tenderly hushing Armin's protests with promises of a quick return, then reappear with the cake mere seconds later. And then he would make smooth comments like, "Wow, Armin, I saw the name of this cake and knew it'd be right up your alley. Because you're an angel and it's food. Cake." And then he could like, feed him the cake, because maybe he's one of those angels that's just a giant flaming wheel covered with eyes that doesn't have any hands.

As it happened, he'd brought it out and the line had gone more along the lines of, "W-wow, um. It's…it's cake." But Armin just smiled and thanked him for the wonderful meal, settled against him on the couch to watch whatever dumb movie Jean had queued up for the night, eating the cake himself, because what the fuck, Jean, of course he has hands? What were you even thinking. Jean cursed his childhood Sunday mornings stuck in Sister Agatha's bible study. Calling your date a giant flaming eye-wheel wouldn't get you anywhere.

Dinner and a movie, however…that was a much safer bet. Armin's tiny hands crept under his shirt, nails scraping down his back as Jean carefully settled his weight down on him a little further. Armin let out the cutest little fucking groan, and buried his face against Jean's chest as their hips rocked together. The movie, forgotten the moment Armin traced his fingers down the shell of Jean's ear, forgotten the moment Armin closed his eyes and tilted his chin up to be kissed, nevertheless provided an appropriate soundtrack of explosions and gunshots.

Jean had a brief moment of panic when Armin wriggled out from underneath him, but it did no favors to his heart rate to see Armin settling down on the floor, on his knees, at Jean's feet. Armin set a firm, gentle hand against Jean's stomach to make him lean back against the couch, traced that hand down to the zipper of Jean's pants. Armin's eyes were on him, blue and wanting and dark, and he took Jean's hand by the wrist, placing it firmly atop his own head. Jean's fingers curled into the soft (_soft_, good fucking god soft) hair of their own accord.

"You can pull it while I'm sucking you," Armin said. Jean could barely choke out a groan in response.

Armin drew the zipper down, and rubbed Jean through his boxers once, twice, before tugging them down enough to let his cock spring free. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and his eyes slid shut almost blissfully as Jean's fingers gave a tiny, experimental tug. The Lincoln Memorial exploded on the TV screen as Armin's tongue licked up the length of his cock in one wet, hot stroke, and his breath, his wet hot breath against the head of his dick as he took it in his mouth and _sucked—_

And then Armin was gagging on Jean's spunk as he let loose in his mouth without the slightest warning on either side of the equation. Humiliation and pleasure burned through his veins in equal measure, and as the nanoseconds flew by with Armin hacking up a lung at his feet, humiliation gained a pretty solid lead.

"Oh. Oh my god. Oh fucking shit, Armin, I'm so sorry, fucking, I'm so sorry_—_"

Armin waved off his protests, and choked out a request for water. Jean bolted into the kitchen, stumbling into walls with his traitorous dick still flopping around out of his pants. Would sparkling water help clear spunk out of your airways? Flavored water? Jean swore at himself and just grabbed the Brita filter from the fridge. He returned to the living room, where Armin had dragged himself onto the couch to recover.

Jean offered a glass to him, unable to meet his eyes. "I've…got sparkling water too. Cherry-flavored."

The side of Armin's mouth twitched up, but he said nothing as he accepted the cup.

Jean numbly watched the movie's closing credits as Armin drained the glass. Lighting Director. Costume Crew. None of it mattered. He'd had a gorgeous blond at his feet with a hunger for his dick, a gorgeous blond he'd been working up the courage to ask out the second he'd entered the bakery four months back, and he'd just thrown those four months out the window by proving that he had the stamina of a fourteen-year-old.

But it was Armin whose hand came up to rub at his back. Jean finally met his eyes, guiltily. Should've offered to rub his back. Can't do that now. Who does double back-rubbing? Nobody.

Armin leaned over to peck him on the side of his lips. "It's okay. Rain check on the blowjob. Next Saturday, maybe?"

Next Saturday. It was a date.


End file.
